


Always In The Right Places

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alcohol, All The Hair, Banter, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Martinis Are Dangerous, Morning-After Moments, Pining!James, Plot Devices, Shirtlessness, protective!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fault of a kink meme prompt that suggested that the boys be asked to, for the MTV Movie Awards, attempt a skit in which they parody their X-Men characters, and the epic romance, by mock-jumping in bed together as Erik and Charles. Of course, someone says someone else’s real name while filming. And then they try to deal with this by getting very drunk, because that's always a good idea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always In The Right Places

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines from The Kooks’ “Sway”, this time.

_and take whatever you have to take, you know I love you_   
_come however you have to come, and get it out and get it out_   
_take it out on me, take it out on me_   
_I'll give you all, I'll give you all…_   
_'cause I need your sway, because you always pay for it_   
_and I, and I, need your soul, because you're always soulful_   
_and I, and I, need your heart, because you're always in the right places_   
_oh yes I will, I will give you all…_

They’re standing in the studio, gazing at the set, which mostly consists of a bed and an inadequate purple sheet, and James is starting to wonder about the sanity of everyone involved, from the MTV Movie Awards producers who’ve suggested the skit, to the writers who thought it would be hysterical to poke fun at the tragic romance of _First Class_ , to himself, for agreeing on behalf of both of them, when asked. Especially considering the instructions they’ve just been given.

“Did they just tell us to ‘play up the gay thing’?”

“I believe they did, yes.”

“They _have_ seen that deleted scene with you in the dress…”

“Maybe that’s why.”

“So…are you…do you mind? Because if you don’t want to…” He has to ask. Michael is a good sport about almost everything ever, from kidnapping helpless golf carts to dressing up in drag for a moment that won’t even make it into the finished movie, but there has to be a line somewhere. And that line might be right here, involving a bed and James and, apparently, a gay thing.

He watches Michael, under the too-bright studio lights. Michael doesn’t ask whether _James_ minds, which is a good thing, because James is a terrible liar and the only true answer to that question involves phrases like _I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time you smiled, so many teeth, so much passion for everything you love,_ and _I can never figure out what color your eyes actually are and I want to keep looking always,_ and _I think I’m in love with you_.

What Michael does say is, “James, you’ve seen me in drag and I’ve held you in my arms on a beach while you’ve made yourself cry, so I’m pretty sure we can get into a bed together for one parody scene.”

It’s not exactly the enthusiastic response he shouldn’t’ve wanted—and there’s an odd undercurrent in Michael’s tone, like he really _isn’t_ sure about whether he can bring himself to share a bed with James but will try his best to make it work—but it’s not a no.

“Okay, then. Um…” He tries for a grin. For a casual tone. “So, um, take me to bed and ravish me with your supervillain powers?” And flings his arms out, dramatically, a soap-opera invitation.

Michael stares at him, tries not to smile, gives up. “That’s your pick-up line, seriously? I feel insulted, James.”

“At least I didn’t call you groovy,” James says, and this time Michael doesn’t even bother holding back the laugh. Better, James thinks, and lets himself smile too. At least he can still make Michael laugh.

The skit calls for them to pop up from under the covers together, shirtless, and improvise something along the lines of ‘thank god we had sex instead of fighting’. Michael, who has absolutely no problems being shirtless, strips down to whistles of admiration from the crew, and grins, and blows kisses.

James stares, because, well, he’s being invited to appreciate the sight. And so is everyone else, anyway. He’s allowed. No one will notice, if his eyes are lingering a little too long on that flat stomach, the hollows of those hipbones.

While everyone is distracted by Michael, he peels off his own shirt and slides under the hideously purple sheet and lies there watching all the smooth muscles, hopefully not in too obvious a position, and waits for Michael to finish accepting compliments and come over to the bed.

It’s not that James exactly minds being shirtless, himself. He’s not hiding, or anything like that; he’s not self-conscious, not really, and can’t afford to be anyway, not in this profession. He’s just not anything spectacular, and he knows it. James taking off his shirt doesn’t prompt cheers and fluttering eyelashes, never has, and that’s fine. He has other talents; he’s a good actor, he knows that, he puts his heart into his performances, every single time. He doesn’t need anyone, and he especially does not need Michael, to look at him the way that the camerawoman is looking at Michael now.

It’s the sort of look that suggests she wants to eat him for breakfast. Or remove his pants, too, and _then_ eat him for breakfast. James can sympathize.

Michael glances around, and then frowns a little, when he spots James, in bed and under the sheet. Of course he does; he’s probably thinking about James being half-naked and, importantly, about to get very close to him. “James, you—”

“Come on,” James says, because he doesn’t want to hear the end of that sentence, “the fate of the world depends on whether we wake up in bed together, you know, don’t keep me waiting or I’ll have to control you with my awesome telepathic powers,” and Michael shakes his head, still looking worried, but comes over and sits down beside him.

“Awesome telepathic powers aren’t real, you know.”

“Have you met my grandmother? Because she could tell when I was thinking about stealing biscuits out of the cupboard, before I’d even decided I wanted one.”

“You stole your grandmother’s biscuits?”

“I was very young and I had a secret passion for anything with chocolate chips. Or anything with sugar. Or anything bad for me.”

“So not much different from now, then.”

“I’d say that’s not true, but it is.” Except that these days, in the category of things that he shouldn’t be craving, he also has to include Michael smiling at him. Right up there with peanut-butter brownies, really. No, even better.

The worried look in those springtime-pale eyes has faded, a little; James mentally pats himself on the back. He’s got Michael to relax again. Good. They can get through this.

“All right,” the director says, from behind the camera, “Michael, you actually need to get in the damn bed, and I know we’re all enjoying the view but we don’t have all day,” and Michael grins and deliberately stretches, getting up, before sliding under the sheet.

“Show-off,” James says, because it’s true, and because he adores Michael like this, all playful and utterly pleased with himself.

“Well, I saw you looking,” Michael says, and he’s teasing, of course he’s teasing, he has to be, if he’d honestly seen James looking he probably would’ve jumped out of the bed by now and run away, and it’s a very good thing that telepathic powers _aren’t_ real, because that means there’s no possible way that Michael can hear all the mental panic going on over in his co-star’s head.

James is saved from having to answer by shouts of, appropriately, “Action!” and the cameras start rolling.

They toss down the sheet and sit up simultaneously, perfect timing, as always when they’re working together, and Michael looks at him and smiles, all satisfied and mock-seductive, and James says, “I’m so glad we’ve given in to our secret passion for each other, Erik, can you imagine what would’ve happened otherwise,” and Michael looks like he wants to laugh but goes with, “Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry I’ve been too busy being evil to see how much you cared for me!”

“Erik,” James says, “please never leave me again,” and bats his eyelashes, which he would never do in real life ever but is completely worth it for the look on Michael’s face.

“Charles,” Michael proclaims, loudly, “I love you!” and, all right, they’re carrying this further, that’s a challenge, so James has to accept. Obviously.

“I love you as well! I know what you’re thinking, Erik, because I am the world’s greatest telepath, and yes! Yes, you _can_ kiss me again!”

Michael mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously blasphemous, and James isn’t sure whether to be pleased that apparently he’s won the bizarre game of shirtless gay chicken, or to let his heart break, just a little, at the confirmation that Michael truly _doesn’t_ want to kiss him, ever.

At which point Michael lunges over and presses warm lips to his, and every rational brain cell in James’s head short-circuits.

Michael’s lips are firm against his, but gentler than he’d thought they’d be; he’d always imagined that Michael would be a demanding kisser, the kind of person who’d go after and take what he wanted, purposefully, and James in fact has had many vivid late-night fantasies about letting Michael take whatever he might want, ever, in this regard. But.

But Michael kisses him softly, almost reverently, like he can’t quite believe he’s doing this, asking, not insisting, tongue slipping out to explore the slightest curve of his bottom lip, slowly enough that James wonders whether Michael’s trying to discover every last atom of skin. It’s excruciatingly beautiful, drawn out and tender and enough to make James shiver, inadvertently, everywhere.

He parts his lips a little more. An invitation. He can’t help it.

Michael groans into his mouth, and the kiss gets a bit deeper. He’s tasting chapstick and a tiny hint of nicotine and the bittersweet flavor of coffee, black and strong because that’s how Michael likes coffee, unlike James, who refuses to touch the stuff until it contains enough sugar to technically be called syrup.

He loves the taste of black coffee, he decides on the spot.

Dimly, he realizes that no one’s saying anything, no yells of “Cut!” or “Start over!” or “Stop making out with each other in the middle of the set, we can’t air this!” Just sheer silence.

Except for Michael whispering, very quietly, little phrases, broken words into the kiss, _so beautiful, oh god, I never—_

Never. No. Of course not. Because Michael doesn’t want _him_. They’re _acting_. Badly, true—on purpose—but still. Erik wanting Charles. Not Michael wanting him.

Michael is a damn good actor.

And James must be some sort of masochist, because even knowing that it isn’t real, he wants more. He wants this. And he’s not selfless enough to stop, not so soon, not now, not when this might be his only chance to find out how Michael’s bare skin feels against his hands.

He lets himself fall back onto the bed. Pulls Michael down on top of him. They both gasp in unison; James knows exactly why he himself is making that sound, of course, but he’s less sure about Michael. Surprise? Dismay? Something else?

He shuts his eyes because the sensations are incredible, Michael running long fingers across his chest, now, down to his stomach. The fingers leave lingering trails of heat, lines that must be visible, have to be, because they’re going to be burned into his skin forever.

He keeps his eyes shut because he can’t look at Michael’s face, because of course he isn’t acting, not anymore, and of course Michael _is_.

Michael’s gone back to kissing him, lips drifting away from his mouth and along his chin, his throat, the curve of skin between neck and collarbone, streaks of fire like shooting stars. And he moans, because he can’t stay quiet, because he can’t help feeling beautiful, feeling _wanted_ , even though he knows it’s not true.

He slides hands along Michael’s back, over all the smooth planes of muscles, learning every bit of him, memories to cling to later in the cold, and Michael gasps again, and then whispers something that sounds like “oh, _fuck_ ,” and then, “ _James_.”

What?

They both freeze, for just a split second; but they’re both professionals and no one’s said “Cut,” not yet, so James moans again, more loudly, covering up the sudden tense silence with artificial noise. Michael’s stopped moving, against him; that’s not good, James thinks. Michael _is_ a good actor, and of course everyone makes mistakes, stupid little slips, the wrong word, the wrong name, it happens all the time. Doesn’t mean anything. They can move on. Continue. As you were.

Except for how apparently this particular wrong name, saying James’s name in bed, has proven to be so horrifying that Michael _can’t_ continue.

Maybe James should be proud of that. He’s terrifying enough to get Michael Fassbender to panic and break character. How exceptional.

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve agreed to this in the first place. Michael obviously’d been reluctant, and clearly with some sort of good reason, and James should have listened, should have said no to the stupid skit. He hates saying no to people, wants to make people happy if he can, because people _should_ be happy if he can possibly get them to be, but Michael isn’t happy right now and James should have paid more attention to that little fact, starting from the minute this idea’d first been proposed.

Selfish, he thinks. Stupid, and selfish. Michael’s his _friend_. And James has always, always tried to be a good person, to think about what other people might need or want, but this time, this one time, he’d let _himself_ want more. And now he’s hurt Michael, somehow.

He’s not a good person, after all. A good person would know what to say, or do, to make everything all right. To fix whatever he’s done wrong.

At this point someone does say “Cut!” too loudly for all the newfound silence.

Neither of them moves for a second. James is a little afraid that he’s going to cry, and that’s just…pathetic. Which he already knows about himself, thank you.

Michael sits up, carefully. Says, “James?” and that faded-Irish voice, blended echoes of everything Michael’s been and done and seen, catches on his name.

James breathes in and out and doesn’t cry and doesn’t know what Michael wants, or needs, to hear from him. “Well. Think we, um, got it?”

“…what?”

“The—what was it?—the gay thing? That they wanted us to play up? And I didn’t even have to call you groovy. Not that you’re not groovy. I can call you groovy if you want.”

Michael stares at him.

“Um, are you all right? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted me to use the bad pick-up lines, I can if you think it’ll be funny, if we need to do this again…”

“Nope, we’re good!” someone calls at them, from behind the camera. “You two can go!”

“Oh. Okay, then. So…” Michael still isn’t talking and is still staring at him with an unreadable look in those wintergreen eyes and James tries, desperately, to think of any words that might make those eyes thaw and smile again.

“So, um…I know in this situation I should probably offer to buy you a drink, or maybe that should’ve happened before the shirtless bed thing, but it’s only eleven in the morning, so, um, we were talking about cookies earlier, and I’m fairly sure we can find a bakery around here, can I buy you pastries instead?” Maybe he can apologize via fresh-baked scones.

Michael blinks. Well, at least it’s a reaction.

“Or at least coffee?”

“James,” Michael says, flatly, “I am going to go find the closest bar, and consume my body weight in alcohol, and then, most likely, go back to the hotel and pass out in my clothes. Okay?”

“Oh. Um…do you want company?” It hurts, quick and brutal as a knife to the chest: Michael’d hated that scene, that situation, with him, that much. But James is a good friend and if Michael is determined to end up completely plastered, someone has to be there to take care of him.

“Do I…you think you can keep up?”

“I probably weigh more than you do,” James points out, because it’s true. Michael is taller than he is, and in better shape, but they’re built along rather different lines, physically speaking. As has been demonstrated, all too recently.

“Fine,” Michael says. “But I’m not going to be responsible when you start thinking that public karaoke is a brilliant idea.”

“That only happened once!” James protests. And he barely even remembers it. And besides, who can resist a good Bon Jovi song? Also, if Michael is recalling that, teasing him about it, they’re edging back towards fine, right? Maybe?

“Put your shirt back on,” Michael mutters, “and I’ll meet you outside,” and gets up, and walks away.

James sits there and watches him go, and bites his lip, hard enough that he tastes blood, after, but the pain does what he needs it to do: he still doesn’t cry.

 

It’s much later in the day. Well, evening, by now. Still not technically that late—James tries to read his watch, can’t, and gives up, but he’s pretty sure it was hovering around eight pm the last time he’d checked—but considering that they’ve been trying since this morning to obliterate every last brain cell by means of alcohol, it’s been an impressive number of hours.

Of course it isn’t brain cells that Michael’s trying to kill, he thinks, watching Michael toss the metal shaker into the air, over the kitchenette sink. It’s memories. The sensation of James’s lips under his. James’s hands on his skin. Because Michael doesn’t want to know those things.

They’ve ended up back in Michael’s hotel suite, mostly because after the third bar James had tried to put his foot down and at least get them back someplace where, if Michael does collapse into a drunken stupor, James can try to take care of him. Not that James himself is much better off.

He’d attempted to surreptitiously nurse one drink very slowly, watching Michael down multiple glasses of gin in quick succession and wincing each time, and he’d been hoping that Michael wouldn’t notice but Michael had, and then had proceeded to order drinks _for_ him, observing sarcastically, “You said you would keep up,” and James had finished all the damn drinks in the hope that they’d make the renewed stab wounds in his heart disappear.

Hadn’t worked. Now he just felt heartbroken _and_ vaguely nauseated. Terrific.

He’d talked Michael into returning to the hotel, eventually, though they’d had to compromise; Michael’d said “You know I used to be a bartender, I’m very good at this, I’m very good at a lot of things, you should know that,” and James had tried not to laugh, through all the pain, and said, “Yes, I know, you’ve told me, come on,” and Michael had demanded that they stop at a store and buy vodka and assorted accompaniments so that he could provide a demonstration of his talents, back in the room.

Such a bad idea. Both of them. Here. In Michael’s hotel room. With all the vodka. And he’d been trying to be the responsible one.

He finishes his drink, mostly because it’s there and he can’t think of anything else to do.

It’s a nice hotel. They’ve got suites, even. Full refrigerators, sinks, an oven, glassware, most of which is currently in use or sitting around the bar, because Michael keeps making new variations of martini with slight differences that he insists are profound and that James can’t even taste, and apparently they can’t reuse glasses, because that would contaminate the new drink with the remains of the older one, or something, a statement which hadn’t made much sense when Michael’d proclaimed it, and much less in James’s very intoxicated brain.

“Oh,” Michael says, “more, you should…have more,” and starts looking for a new glass.

“I should not have more,” James says, truthfully. He should leave. And fall into bed. He’s already going to despise himself in the morning. But Michael needs him. Needs the company.

“You should. Because I’m very drunk.”

“Yes, you are.” Inarguably true. Michael, when flushed with alcohol and the glow of intoxication, looks at everything much more intently, as if trying to memorize the world around him in case it changes, and sounds plaintively imploring when he wants James to do things, and James can’t resist.

“I am, but you aren’t. Not that drunk.”

“Yes I am. Are we…have we been drinking vodka out of whiskey glasses? Because that’s…the opposite of a good idea.”

“Well,” Michael says logically, “we ran out of martini glasses,” and James thumps his head against the bar.

“I hate you.”

“You hate me?” Michael sets down the still-full shaker, and studies him, and that voice goes very small with the next word. “Seriously?”

“No! Of course not. Never.” James frowns at him. “What, you didn’t think I meant that, did you? I just meant I’m going to have the worst hangover in the universe and I think I have gin in my hair.”

“That’s because you have a lot of hair. Too much hair. All the hair.”

“All…the hair?”

“It gets in your eyes sometimes. And in your mouth. Like with the gin. And I want to touch it.”

“What?”

“To _help_ ,” Michael explains, earnestly, and James’s heart does a little somersault, in his chest. Stupid heart, wanting to dance even with all the omnipresent knife wounds. “Sometimes I want to just reach over and…” He makes a vague gesture in the direction of James’s face, not quite connecting, miming the action, brushing hair away. “You have a lot of hair.”

“All the hair,” James agrees, because it’s true. “And you can. Y’know. If you ever feel like…” He copies Michael’s gesture, which gets a smile. Michael wants to touch him, and even if it’s only just to help, Michael being friendly, James will take what he can get.

“Okay,” Michael says. “Also, here.”

“What’s in this one?”

“Um…mostly vodka. The lemon vodka. You liked that one.”

“I did? Okay.” He takes a sip. Coughs. “Fuck!”

“Maybe a lot of vodka.”

“Maybe I do hate you. Where’s yours?”

“We’re sharing. I’m out of…you know. Cups. Glasses. I could try using a cereal bowl.”

“We are not drinking vodka out of cereal bowls.” He doesn’t mind sharing. He imagines that he can taste the presence of Michael’s lips, when he takes another drink. “I like your hair, too. In case you were wondering.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. And your eyes. And your…everything. You’re all… perfect.”

_“What?”_

“Oh, I know you know you are. Come on, they all tell you so. The world. The world thinks you’re gorgeous and attractive and…perfect.”

“The world thinks I’m perfect?”

“Yes! Exactly.”

“James,” Michael says, and he might be laughing, “what—”

“You should know that by now,” James says, and tries to emphasize his point with a scowl, but he’s pretty sure, from the expression on Michael’s face, that he’s not succeeding. “You _do_ know you’re unbelievably good-looking. Everyone thinks so.”

“Oh, that. I mean, I know. I know that. But that's the problem.”

To which James has to ask, “What?” because he's very confused, and that can't all be the fault of the alcohol.  
  
“I mean,” Michael says, and takes the glass out of James's hand, as if planning to refill it, and then gazes at it like he's forgotten why he picked it up. “I mean…everyone says that. When they look at me.”  
  
“And that's a problem? Because I would love to have your problems, then. I get called cuddly. And adorable. But not good-looking.” Well, _that'd_ come out whiny. Blame the martinis, he thinks. And Michael. For making said martinis. For putting them into the inappropriately and dangerously sized glasses. And for being so attractive. “It's not fair. You're just...not fair.”  
  
“I'm not?” Michael tries to set the glass down, with exaggerated care, on the air beside the bar. And then says, “Oh, fuck me,” when it lands on the carpet, and then, “Sorry! I mean…I didn't mean…you know what I mean.”  
  
“Not at all. But ’s okay. Why’re you complaining about being gorgeous, again?” He's kind of proud of himself for remembering the original topic, despite the haze of alcohol.  
  
“Not about _being_ …I just meant. Everyone says that. About me. Except you. You don't say that. You say I'm your friend and you compliment my acting and you make jokes about sex with me in interviews but you never. You never say you think I'm gorgeous.”  
  
“I just did!” He might be very far past drunk, but he does remember that.  
  
“Yes, but.” Michael looks at him, eyes all wide and glittering and sincere, through the vodka. “You had to be drunk first. To say it. You wouldn't. If you weren't. You don't want to say it. Or me. You don't want me. Just the martinis.”  
  
James stares at him. And then stares some more. “But…I don't want the martinis. Well, not any _more_ martinis. And I do want you.”

“Oh, god—” Michael now looks astonished, and more than a little concerned. “How—how drunk _are_ you?”

“Incredibly.” He does have to be honest; Michael’s asking the question, and he can’t lie, not to those newly-apprehensive eyes. “But I did mean that. I think you’re amazing. And gorgeous. And if I never told you it was just because I thought you knew. That I thought that, too. And that I want you.” He reviews that statement, afterwards, in his head. That’d all made sense, right?

“Oh,” Michael breathes, standing very still on the other side of the bar, “oh, no, you don’t, you can’t, you’re just—I’m so sorry, James, I’m never letting you near alcohol ever _again_ —”

“No,” James says, frustrated now, “you’re not _listening_ ,” and then reaches out and picks up the closest of Michael’s hands, resting frozen between all the discarded and curious bits of glassware on the bar. The hand is warm, and startled, in his, and he runs his thumb across the back of Michael’s wrist, watching the movement of skin against skin; and then he looks up.

Michael stops talking, mid-guilty-protest.

All the abandoned martini glasses, in the anticipatory quiet, forget how to breathe.

“I do want you,” James says again, as clearly as he can under the circumstances, and then says, “oh,” because he’s finally made the connection, “oh, was _that_ why all the martinis? You thought—you don’t know how much I want you?”

“James…” Michael turns his hand, and long fingers, tentatively, twine themselves into James’s shorter ones. “I’ve never been kissed by anyone like that in my _life_. And then you started offering to buy me pastries. And I didn’t know. What you wanted. If you want—do you want this?”

“I just said, didn’t I?”

“Yes…you did…but…”

“But? Do you not—you said you wanted me to think that. About you. And I do. So…” There must still be some sort of problem, because Michael is gazing at him with blatant worry. Michael shouldn’t be worried; Michael should be happy, always. And evidently whatever he’d done earlier—however he’d managed to hurt or disturb or distress Michael—he hasn’t made it any better.

He doesn’t understand what else he’s supposed to do; Michael’d said he wanted James to call him attractive, and James _had_ , and he doesn’t know how to make things more plain than that.

But somehow there’s still a problem. Of course there is, he realizes abruptly. Michael’d wanted James to find _him_ attractive, because everyone finds Michael attractive; that has to be it. Michael’s bothered by the idea that maybe James doesn’t, because he’s not used to that; it’s not about Michael wanting _James_ , not at all.

Okay. That makes much more sense, suddenly. And Michael must be worried because he thinks that James is reading too much into a simple question, one friend to another, about physical appearance and reassurance.

James _wants_ to be reading too much into it, but the world isn’t going to work that way just because he wishes it would; Michael could have anyone he wants in the entire universe, and with all the universe to choose from, he’s certainly not going to want James.

Right, he thinks, appearance and reassurance, then. More reassurance, obviously, since Michael still hasn’t said anything.

“It’s not because I’m drunk,” he offers, this time. “You’re spectacularly attractive always. I’m sorry I haven’t told you that. I’ll try to tell you that, um, more. If you want that. If that was all you meant, if you just wanted—I can do that.”

“You,” Michael says, and now kind of looks like he wants to cry, “you think that I—that I just wanted you to think—James, you don’t know—you aren’t—”

“It’s fine,” James interrupts, because he’s trying very hard to be a good friend but he can’t hear Michael say _you aren’t the person I want_. “Really. I can…whatever you want me to say. I can say those things. I do mean those things, you know. I’m sorry if I didn’t understand you. Before.”

“No,” Michael whispers, “no, I meant—this isn’t what I wanted, James, I—”

“Oh,” James says, because he’s run out of words, and if that’s not what Michael wants from him then he can’t think of what else he has left to give; Michael doesn’t want _him_ , he knows that, he’s known that all along, except for that one brief moment in which he’d thought there might be possibilities.

Whoever invented the idea of hope, again? Such a stupid concept.

He pulls his hand out of Michael’s. Takes a backward step. Leaves his heart behind. It’s okay; he doesn’t need that particular internal organ, anyway. It’s broken.

“James,” Michael says, sounding panicked, “James, wait, I didn’t mean—I think you think I meant—but I didn’t, I’m sorry, I—”

“Not your fault. My fault. ’M sorry.” He takes another step, watching the carpet in case it tries any sudden movements; it feels a bit too happily unstable beneath his feet. At some point he’s going to have to walk past Michael to get to the door, but he’ll worry about that when he gets there.

He hears Michael swear, ferociously and creatively, and when he looks up from the untrustworthy carpet Michael has run around the bar and is standing in front of him.

“Are you going to let me leave?” He can’t quite make his voice not shake. Damn.

“No. Because I don’t want you to leave. I want you to let me explain. Please. I meant—”

“You don’t have to—”

“Would you _let me talk_ ,” Michael says, and kisses him. Decidedly. Not tentative at all.

“You,” James says, after, voice still shaking but now for a slightly different reason, or a whole host of reasons, all elbowing each other out of the way to try to get to the front, “you taste like lemon vodka and you said you didn’t want—”

“I was trying to say I didn’t want our first—whatever this is, our _first_ —I don’t want this to happen when we’re both stupidly drunk and I can’t believe it. I want to believe it. I want us both to be sober, so we can both remember it when I kiss you until you’re moaning my name—”

“Michael,” James murmurs, because he _has_ to, right then, and Michael says, “Oh my _god_ ,” and all at once James finds himself wanting to laugh.

“Okay,” Michael says this time, sounding absurdly nervous, “okay, so…you’re not going to leave.”

“No?”

“And…you know I want you to stay. You do know that, right?”

“I…think so?”

“You should know that. Um…would it help if I kissed you again?”

“Yes?”

“Okay.” This time lasts longer. And leaves them both breathless, James somehow leaning against the bar and folded up in Michael’s arms, and a little dizzy after Michael’s lips lift away from his. Might be the alcohol. Or just the vertiginous sensation of dreams turning real.

“James?” Michael trails one finger along his cheek, questioning. “Still awake?”

“No,” James says, “I’m completely sure this is some sort of dream,” and Michael laughs, until James adds, after thinking about it for a minute, “or a nightmare,” and Michael stops laughing. “What?”

“Well,” James points out, because one of them has to think about this rationally, “it’s not going to last, and I’m going to wake up, and then I’m going to want to cry, and so. That means it’s a nightmare.”

And Michael says something very obscene, very loudly. “What? Why do you think—you don’t think I—wait, _what_?”

“You don’t,” James says, “you don’t want _me_.”

“I might not be drunk enough for this,” Michael mutters, or something like that, under his breath, and then, “You do realize I’ve just been kissing you!”

“Yes. And that was…” James shrugs, helplessly. “Everything I’ve ever wanted. You. You’re everything I want. I love you. Always have. But you never have. Wanted me, I mean. So it can’t be _real_.” It’s important that Michael understands this. He can’t let Michael keep kissing him, can’t let Michael wake up in the morning regretting these things. He has to be the responsible one.

Even if he’s not been doing a very good job of that so far. No wonder Michael doesn’t want him, honestly. He’s a terrible friend even when he’s trying so hard to help.

Maybe if he keeps attempting to explain, Michael will stop staring at him with those stricken eyes. “So you’re kissing me because you’re very drunk and you want to take care of me and not let me go anywhere and that’s nice of you—”

_“Nice?!”_

“—but I do know you don’t love me. I mean… _me_. And that’s okay, why would you, I always knew you wouldn’t love me back, I understand that, you wouldn’t want—you should end up with someone more…special. Than me. You—”

“James,” Michael says, “did you just say you _love me_?”

James opens his mouth, closes it, wishes—futilely—for the ability to become intangible and melt through solid objects, namely the hotel floor, and can’t think of anything to say.

“James?”

And Michael’s shocked eyes are still watching his face, and all the emotions, all the terrified panic— _oh god what did I just say?_ —the realization that he’s just let slip the secret he’s been successfully keeping for fucking _years_ , all the alcohol, the dizziness, everything, catches up to him at once, pouncing gleefully onto his brain and batting it around his skull, and he says, “I’m really sorry but I think I’m going to go throw up in your bathroom now,” because he is, and he does.

The night’s more or less a blur, after that. He does remember Michael bringing him water, and sitting next to him on the very hard tile floor, and holding his hair back; at one point he tries to apologize and Michael says “Shut up, James, please don’t,” and he blinks back tears and pretends they’re just from the horrible physical revenge of the vodka.

At some point he must’ve lost a bit of time, because he opens his eyes, in the shower, to the sound of Michael swearing, desperately. “James? Wake up, please, come on, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—please don’t let me have—please wake up, I don’t know what to do if I’ve given you alcohol poisoning, or something, _please_ —”

“You haven’t,” James says, because he needs to reassure Michael, even though he’s in fact a bit worried; usually he remembers everything, regardless of the amount of alcohol. Which has sometimes been more of a curse, and sometimes a blessing, but either way it’s unsettling when he _can't_ remember things. Like now.

“Oh thank god.” Michael’s hands, holding him up, are trembling; the hot water splashes across both their faces like scalding tears. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t—you seemed fine, well, not _fine_ , of course not, but then I went to get you more water and when I came back you were—I couldn’t wake you up and—”

“I’m okay,” James says, more because he wants it to be true than because it is, though he does feel a tiny bit better, possibly from all the vomiting or the cleansing heat of the shower or just the feeling of Michael’s hands on him. “You…are _you_ okay?”

Michael must’ve had at least as much, if not more, to drink, but has clearly managed to stay upright and awake. Not fair, James thinks. One more reason why Michael is impressive, of course. And one more reason Michael definitely isn’t going to fall in love with James, the person who’s just been throwing up in his bathroom and, apparently, passing out in his shower. Pathetic. Again.

“Me?” Michael blinks. Several times. Turns his face into the burning water, for a second, then looks at James again. “You can’t even stand up, and you want to know if _I’m_ okay?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…James…oh, fuck. Yes. I’m okay. Terrified as hell. I think you scared me into being sober. You—please don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Wasn’t planning on it _this_ time,” James says, a little indignantly, and Michael actually laughs, unevenly.

“Okay. You’re okay. Can we get out of the shower, and put you in bed? So you can sleep?”

James nods, which makes the room start spinning again. But not as badly as before; he can handle this amount of disorientation. Belatedly, he registers something else too, something he probably should’ve noticed much, much earlier.

“Am I…naked?”

“Um…I’m pretty sure you don’t want to see your clothes again. And I…”

“You’re not naked.” He’d start keeping a list of all the not-fair moments of the night, except that’d be too many incidents to count.

“I’m…no, I’m not. I wasn’t thinking—I needed to get you to wake up. I didn’t—I wasn’t going to stop and—I was just holding onto you. Come on. Bed. Please.”

“Okay.”

They make it out of the shower and into the bedroom and he’s vaguely aware of Michael easing him under the covers, and then moving away, which he finds disappointing but understandable, and then there’s a rustle of clothing and then Michael comes back and sits down beside him. This is less understandable; not the desire for dry clothes, but the fact that Michael’s not given in to being disgusted by him yet.

“You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here. I’m not leaving you alone. How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” Michael looks a little happier, at that answer; James adds, “And tired,” which earns a near-smile, edged around with guilt and relief.

“All right. You should sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up, again, too.” Michael puts a hand on James’s head, strokes fingers through wet hair. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes…feels good, you know. I like you touching me. And all the hair.” He’s proud of himself, when Michael laughs; somewhere in there, in between the hot water and the drunkenness and the concern, he’s managed to say something right, at last. Has salvaged some sort of floating bits of comfort, from the disastrous wreck of the evening.

On that note, he decides, he can let himself drift off; he _is_ tired, and the calm waters of sleep are swirling up invitingly. He thinks maybe Michael says something else, low-voiced and quietly sincere, but he’s already less than half awake, and so the words don’t quite catch up in time to follow him down.

 

James wakes up to the incontrovertible knowledge of two things: one, someone’s been using his head as a practice drum set, and two, there’s a very warm and solid body curled up around his, one arm and one leg draped over him as if holding on.

Okay, he thinks, eyes open, and then immediately reconsiders the wisdom of that approach. Maybe not open, in that case. Maybe he’ll just lie here, in bed, until the parade of elephants inside his skull settles down for a nap, then.

In bed. In…Michael’s bed. In which he is still naked. Because he is a horrible person, and vodka is an equally horrible invention.

He’s not sure what time it is, but it’s earlier than any time he normally wakes up on days off, judging by the cool dim greyness of the light; then again, they probably hadn’t even made it past midnight before collapsing into bed, since he’s fairly sure he remembers asking, at some point, while still sitting on the bathroom floor next to the companionable toilet, and he’d been insistent enough that Michael’d had to find out and tell him, and that’d been around ten.

He should probably try to go back to sleep, but he’s never been able to sleep with a headache. The pounding always distracts him. He doesn’t mind, this time; he deserves it.

The person currently clinging, octopus-like, to him in bed, is Michael. He knows that without looking; he knows the shape and weight of Michael’s arm, and the sound of his breath, when Michael lets out a little sigh in his sleep.

James really should get up, should go, should do a lot of things. But he can’t move without awakening Michael, and he doesn’t want to awaken Michael, and, to be honest, he doesn’t want to go. He’s lying here in Michael’s arms, protected from the invading cold of the inconsiderate morning chill, and he feels safe and comfortable and also something that’s a lot like contentment, and for a minute, just for a minute, the hangover and the looming guilt and the impending return of reality are all unimportant. Because he gets to have _this_ minute, right now. Just for now.

At which point Michael sighs again, warm air tickling the back of James’s neck, and then stirs, and then bolts upright. “Oh my god— _James_?”

“Yes? And also…ow.”

“Sorry! And I’m sorry, I didn’t—I was trying to stay awake, to make sure you—are you all right?”

“Um…I think so. Apart from the fireworks display that’s taken the place of my brain, that is.”

“I’m so sorry. Again. And I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. I should’ve—I wanted to take care of you.”

“You did.” He does recall that. Despite the fireworks and subsequent brain-cell explosions. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.” Michael swallows. Runs a hand through his own now-dry hair, and then looks at James like he wants to be touching _that_ hair, instead. Doesn’t. “How much—do you remember anything? From last night?”

“Pretty much everything, actually.”

“Really?”

“Mmm…mostly, yes. I usually do. Did we really discuss drinking vodka out of cereal bowls? Because that’s so many kinds of wrong.” Deflection, he thinks. Get Michael to smile again, if he can. Distractions. Armor back in place, secure against the moment when Michael tells him to leave.

“Well…at least we didn’t ever get around to actually attempting that one…So you, um. You remember—do you remember what you said? To me?”

“That I think you’re unfairly attractive?” James has to pause, to yawn. His jaw cracks. Which isn’t attractive at all, much less unfairly so. “You still are. Even with a hangover.”

Michael lets out a small, amused, and oddly nervous huff of laughter. “Um, thank you. But that wasn’t what I meant. You said…you said you love me. You did say that, right?”

James looks at him, for a minute. Michael is sitting there next to him, dressed in faded jeans and a too-big t-shirt, bare feet still tucked under the helpfully cozy blankets because the too-early morning is icily cold, and those ever-changing eyes are wide and genuinely wondering, when they meet his, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit hopeful, too.

James, on the other hand, is still very naked and his head hurts quite a lot and he’s very certain he looks even worse than he feels, but he can’t exactly humiliate himself any more, so, why not? He’s already said it once, drunkenly; might as well admit it again sober, he thinks, fatalistically.

“I did say that. And I do. Love you. I love you.” He glances at those astounded winter-kaleidoscope eyes, and then down, because he can’t rebuild any defenses when those eyes keep finding all the weak places in his walls.

“James,” Michael says,  and two long warm fingers reach over and tip his chin up again, making him look, “I love you, too.”

“But,” James says, after an eternal second in which the universe turns itself inside out, “I’m still naked.”

It’s not the most eloquent protest ever. But it’s all he can come up with. Some sort of symbol for everything that doesn’t make sense about this moment.

Michael starts laughing, which really isn’t the response James would’ve expected, and then puts both arms around him, which James accepts because he’s extremely confused and the arms just might be real.

“James,” Michael says, still laughing, “you realize I love you naked.”

“Um…no?”

“Why not? You’re beautiful. You have no idea—you know when I said your name, yesterday, that wasn’t an accident—I mean, it wasn’t on purpose, but it wasn’t a mistake, either. I was thinking about _you_.”

“You were? You weren’t—you were acting!”

“No, I wasn’t! You don’t—James, do you not know how fantastic you are? You don’t, do you?”

Michael looks down at him, and James tries to find words and doesn’t have any, and Michael says, “Fuck—James, what _happened_ , to make you think that? About yourself? Did someone—what incredibly stupid person told you that you weren’t amazing, ever? Because they were wrong, and you’re wrong, you’re wonderful, and I love you. And I can’t—I don’t know what to say to make you believe me. I love you. You kiss me like you think I’m amazing, too, and you get excited about chocolate-chip biscuits and sugar in your coffee and you make everyone around you get excited too, and I love that, I love the way you want to make the entire world happy, singlehandedly, and I know you only got drunk with me because you were trying to take care of me, because you’re the most fucking selfless person I’ve ever met, and—you’re smiling. Are you—is that—are you smiling because of me? Please say yes, because I love you.”

“Yes. I am. And I love you, too.”


End file.
